


Flawed Design

by Aimryax



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Friends to Enemies, Gen, Kinda, Non-Graphic Violence, Relationship Study, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimryax/pseuds/Aimryax
Summary: Standing side to side upon judgement, where two figures had stood in their respective positions. The right wondering sombrely where it all went wrong, and the left wondering when did the devotion break.//Flawed Design - Saint Asonia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Flawed Design

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this drafted for so long until I thought hey let's just section this bitch.
> 
> This time, alongside @llanxeotis who as always, helps me with my grammatically incorrect semi-colons. @CelestialFox helped greatly with analysing and pointing out things to me in between for both characters.

I.

War is erratic by its nature. Expect the unexpected was what they were often taught, no getting caught off-guard, revise, adapt and mainly; follow, leaving the luxury of consistency only limited to the personal lives of soldiers, although even that could be disrupted.

It was an advantage to a soldier and a disadvantage to a person. In a routine that often made oneself forget the passing of time and of the days and months, changes were almost detected instantly, a breach, as Yuri could call it.

Despite the fact, it was subtle, _extremely so_. Where he'd noticed a gaze eyeing him from afar. Here, only someone with unnatural senses or constantly on the edge could get a gust of interest.

But that was the point; Yuri was unnatural.

As seen by the trained posture coding his body and the rifle idling by his hidden tattooed arms in an oddly comforting way: discipline was to speak when spoken to, no need to learn that twice.

Yuri didn’t feel like he was cornered, but he was definitely being circled around, feeling himself like a deer in the headlights. And it was a different kind of attention, not because he broke a rule and nor was he about to be ordered.

A calling, perhaps.

Footsteps reduced by the snow, Yuri heard them approaching nearer wordlessly until they stopped directly next to him.

Seeing no reaction from Yuri, the intruder’s footsteps sounded like he moved to face whatever Yuri was facing.

“You don’t like people much, do you?” _Oh, Russian_. The voice was nasally, not familiar nor common. The question was just masked enough to be treated as a question, but also presented as a statement.

Admittedly, Yuri thought of himself as a loner, straying away from conversation or any socialisation, they were not his thing and it was optional. He simply chose not to engage in anything unrelated to combat.

Besides, even if Yuri had attempted to; the reactions to him were either admiration or fear—it was sickening and ironic for the ex-prisoner.

Grey eyes merely moved to the side, getting a somewhat visual on the man. He got a good sight of the shape at least, similar height, not Spetsnaz attire with a sharp profile; even as the stranger was looking elsewhere, Yuri felt attention on himself.

Resetting his eyesight on the cold sky; his logic simply told him to opt for silence, and so he did. Only adjusting his posture that dropped down a bit at the unusualness, letting the sounds of the wind fill in between the gap.

Feeling the shift of air again, where the stranger turned slightly towards him, giving Yuri a proper look of the face, potency was the first word to come to Yuri’s mind.

“I have heard that you went on western counterattacks, but...not one word, recruit?”

A responder was something Yuri was not, but his pride was slightly scathed at the implication that his Russian had worsened by dealing with the Westerns. Yuri bit his tongue back from any remarks, _often_.

The wind didn’t stop rustling his company’s rather noticeably new clothes, unlike the heaviness and fading of Yuri’s uniform. Sighing tiredly while adjusting his posture; he still held contact with the horizon nonchalantly rather than the stranger with differently coloured eyes.

Yuri simply responded accordingly, “ _Yes, no...maybe_.”

All his senses leaned towards the unexpected burst of sharp laughter next to him.

“Oh, I’m _definitely_ going to like you.”

  


* * *

  


II.

Vladimir Makarov.

No wonder he felt like the name itself had passed his memory once, from files or reputation.

Barely had gotten a glimpse about Makarov, only leaving the logical decision of deciding on hearings. Where some had said that he was too rogue, even a great threat if not restrained; as Yuri had overheard from his superiors. Where his tactics were cruel and rather brutal, not illegal but the main controversy was that he didn’t even _flinch_ at anything done.

While the other side differed. Where some said that it was necessary as leaving a mark makes sure that nobody comes near ever again, even calling the ex-captain a good leader—that this should be done on defence.

Yuri was in no place to judge on the matter. Maybe the former thought itself was a judgement.

Not an outlaw, almost was on the brink of being one; until taken in unexpectedly by Zakhaev, right under his wing, something in Makarov was seen by the older man through the violence and unethical choices.

And somehow Makarov saw something in Yuri, that brought him to this car in this very moment outside duty.

Sitting in the backseat of the old thing. Feeling drowsy from the lack of sleep, hindrances of the young past. But it was not enough to hinder him currently, Yuri should be awake for this, guarding from the sides.

That’s the role he assumed he should be assigned to and why he was brought along.

Actually, thinking for a few seconds, he scratched that thought. Yuri was going to be more of an overseer, wearing military attire yet not matching with the needed weapons.

_Why’s that?_

“You seem troubled, my friend.”

Or was this Makarov’s idea for friendly bonding.

Slowly getting used to each other as they became more and more of a duo; Yuri knew the tone wasn’t as much concern as it is a question about a possible uncertainty.

Distinguishing was hard, at times feeling like he misjudged Makarov or underestimated him, wasn’t sure if this was from his lack of human contact or Makarov was just a hard person to decrypt. 

A little bit of both, Yuri liked to think.

“I’m not used to not having a debrief.” He answered while slightly shaking his head into focus. All the assignments that were done had been always laid out to him beforehand in detail, with all the outcomes, obstacles and exceptions. This was secretive and new.

And this felt unexpected from Makarov, hiding this from someone who could potentially mess it up. Yuri thought the ex-captain would be more cautious about things, figures not.

“Don’t worry, you’ll know everything in time.” Makarov said with a glint of excitement while eyes averted somewhere else with a hint of a grin, those moments increased more as Makarov was given more trust on orders. It was a bit uncomfortable for Yuri to see at times, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

The glint faded into something...unusual as the differently coloured eyes went back on Yuri, looking a while at him while leaning his head to the side.

“Sleep for now, we have a long day ahead.”

That’s an order Yuri would gladly take blindly, stretching briefly as he rested his body on most of the backseat.

Oddly enough, his mind pondered about something strange, maybe even forgotten from the lack of activity, from both the oncoming event and Makarov himself.

It was the anticipation for something, possessing a wider vision then a monotonous confinement.

  


* * *

  


III.

More power, more reach, more fear.

More responsibilities, more risk, more _failures_.

Inked fingers smoothly handled the ammo, putting them in an easy cycle of hands that had learnt how to fight before they had learnt how to move, the small sounds of metal clicking almost like a constant melody, ringing slightly in the room.

The mind was an absolute mess of disarrayed thoughts, nothing to distract with and nothing to think else about except one single thing. Yuri was played like a _fucking idiot_. There was no room for inefficiency within him—there was no room for inefficiency with _Makarov_.

The slight messiness would make his friend turn merciless at the source. Even if the event had passed a long time ago with piles of other things piled upon it; the voice of Makarov cracking and screaming at Zakhaev’s almost blown off head was _haunting_ , always lingering at the back of his mind with each report and decision he had done, with every punishment he had himself carried out at a job done wrong.

One part of his logic had told him that he’s too important, the other part had told him that he hadn’t tried that to be sure, and history says otherwise.

Right next to the shakiness of the upcoming consequences, Yuri was furious at himself more then anyone could be, letting his emotions overrule at the realisation downing on him of being used as a pawn by his enemies and the infiltrated agents.

Too close, way too close for him and Makarov this time, Yuri had it barely contained, with antlers and bloody gloves that stained his hands almost permanently at this point, always a part of him.

He was used again, had his back exposed and vulnerable because he thought he was above it, where he fell for it and got wounded, not again, _not again_ —

“Easy on yourself.”

A hand on his shoulder had snapped him out of his messed up thoughts, halting them at once; where he let his mind astray too much, the burns of the scraped skin of his fingers registering properly from aggressively handling the ammo.

And maybe the traces of violence that rolled up sleeves hid from the public for now.

Grey eyes hesitantly looked at the pale fingers that rested on his shoulder; in an unexpectedly comforting way that held him to reality firmly, making Yuri come down from the frenzy high he was in, finally hearing his own heartbeat and feel the slightly shivering body of his own.

His body expected disgust, sneering at or even a malicious threat for something to come soon, but none of these came to be. Instead, those eyes were only filled with unusual passiveness directed at him with no glint in them.

Taking a shaky breath in, Yuri nodded his head quickly, looking at his slowly bleeding hands from recent and new bruises, the initial thought of expecting a punishment slowly fading away.

Makarov took the files that rested on the table, of all of those who thought they could twist the roles and get on top, and shamefully, almost did if it wasn’t for quick thinking, not on Yuri’s side.

Maybe he can be wrong, maybe he didn’t know everything, and for once, it was a good thing.

Maybe he let his back exposed to the wrong person.

“Let’s fix that, shall we?”

  


* * *

  


IV.

Ink embedded furthermore on his skin, the black cleaner lines slowly becoming more than the pale skin. Fingers had more fading cuts and agility with practised actions of years, hair growing out more than the previously young shaved soldier haircut that let him be swept in the others.

Yuri wasn’t any soldier in the wave, no longer a Spetsnaz.

The transition didn’t evoke anything out of him, as the outfit had been long discarded in the mess that came upon this period, from hell going loose in Russia, a war in itself at the whim of the west, where the trusted higher ups failed in standing against the enemy in discarding to its people in need.

He was a nobody, just another soldier with an inaccessible file, maybe went missing, maybe a casualty; just another nobody to the world.

 _But somebody to Vladimir_.

Not a single record on the wanted list anywhere, not even a proper file of him as citizen—as person. From the outside, Yuri was just something blended in the multiple shadows of everything, keeping anonymity that he didn’t even attempt to have.

From the inside; he didn’t blend in like he's supposed to, but stood behind tall and menacing, where loud actions were taken by Imran Zakhaev, followed by Vladimir, a strike at the inner enemies and who dared to ally or associate with them.

Yuri was a criminal, but he wasn’t a traitor to his country.

Nor to his friend.

Sitting on a chair, he had kept flipping a coin in a cycle—the Arabic letters on it only recognisable as the language to Yuri—as his thoughts went through his head, not as unorganised nor stoic like years ago. Always thinking about the next step without being told, where he excelled at many things, gaining quite the reputation for himself.

Focus snapped as the coin didn’t fall on his hand again, head looking up to meet with familiar untidy hair and unique scars, smiling slyly at the figure standing next to him.

Yuri stood up as he said playfully, “You’re late.” 

“I had to take care of some things.” Vladimir simply shrugged his shoulders, returning the smile.

“Without me? _I’m wounded_.”

Walking up to the window, the duo stood to look at the scene, arms had crossed while Vladimir simply looked ahead.

The safe house in the middle east felt odd, as the skies were orange in big contrast to the familiar areas Yuri had been gone to, never had direct business this far from his homeland, maybe a few shipments here and there at times.

Seeing the fire from a distance felt odd; as he was often within said fire. Where the USA had sent its marines in vain to drain both efforts and focus alongside the UK. If they were good at one thing, it was stepping a foot where it _shouldn’t_ be.

The golden hue of the desert skies reflected on Vladimir’s face, where a mind was in deep thought, but with the shine of blue and green eyes that Yuri rarely saw at points of his life before the storm upon oppositions, he knew that there was something about to come, a held back force for now.

“Something big?” A familiar question that was always asked repeatedly through the years of closeness.

“Of course.” A grin responded in its unnerving nature.

  


* * *

  


V.

A single bullet that had pierced through the beating heart of the man who had lead the uprising, taking decades of a life with goals, achievements and greatness down to nothingness; is all what it took for everything to fall apart.

And by everything, it meant _everything_.

Where Yuri stood next to his friend. Where words that promised strength had descended into utter _madness_ at the blinding light that claimed thirty thousand souls at once, sealing the fate of whoever dared to be in that radius.

Where the hole started going deeper with a shot by the same hand as its victim, where the young Zakhaev had stained himself with his own blood, making it splatter on others and make them wrongly at fault, further spreading the irresponsible’s fault to everyone.

They were instantly out before everything just broke apart. Out of four people, three were eliminated in span of days—hours, a picture with four people with all the status of being KIA loud in red. Leaving only one standing amidst the crumbled fortress of glory, a hidden standing pillar only forcing Vladimir into escaping.

Focusing onto one thing, Yuri sat as he tried to secure the safe-house they were in, making sure the first horseman stayed unknown.

The violent sound of his friend’s arm _bang_ on the table was supposed to send Yuri flinching away. But with all that has happened in the past days, the loud voice of Vladimir’s human abilities actions were the least of his worries.

Yuri turned his head to it, to see the result of misery after so much silence and holding back until they were both guaranteed safe; disheveled, thrown away, outcasted and forced upon to become...

To become a pariah.

No longer under a wing—no longer under the only wing that took him in when dishonoured, that protected him from harm’s way of emotional breakage from being abandoned for the wolves to tear apart. His first, and only mentor; grey eyes watched in silence as he saw Vladimir become _raw_ , Yuri can see the involuntary efforts of the body to keep itself up, arms trembled in fury alongside the eyes that were in a hysteric-locked frenzy.

“ _How could this happen?!_ ” Vladimir’s voice heightened in fury, pacing irregularly in the room, looking left and right as to expect all the remains of the rising empire suddenly go up as if nothing happened.

As if Imran Zakhaev didn’t just perish.

Just as Vladimir’s figure came within arm reach, Yuri took ahold of a shaking shoulder, forcing eyes to meet.

“ _Look at me_ ,” Yuri’s teeth gritted out, “if you want your place back, you have to calm down and _think_.” Words were stressed out with a shake at every few words, eyes looked at Yuri in disbelief before suddenly changing, as if resetting right back to its original state.

The hunched figure stood up straight, thoughts recomposing itself properly again as a hand wiped the sweat on forehead.

“You’re... you’re right.” 

The look wasn’t hysterical in sadness—but in almost maniac way. Yuri’s mind had slowly registered with the memory being recalled; that the man that stood just a few feet apart wasn’t in a mess of his own pity like a snake with its fangs bloodied and pulled out, but the unsettling tremble of a puppeteer’s fingers. 

The same feeling that took over Yuri’s mind when he had looked at Vladimir’s smile of complete destructiveness, eyes brighter than the explosion’s demolishing light.

“I’m going to take back what’s _mine_.”

A puppeteer who knows he can _tear_ the strings as much as they can be pulled.

  


* * *

  


VI.

Silence and stillness were one of the least favourite things Yuri had to stay in, even if he surrounded it with himself more often.

But that wasn’t right, among other things that Yuri had known it wasn’t.

In comparison to the previous years, they stayed low, _very low_. No prominent operations to be carried out, no history shattering events like the one back in 2011. Just the normal background noises of the underworld, supporting them with needed equipment for whatever is about to come at them.

Severances happened again, where Yuri had picked a side with no second thoughts once again. No feeling of remorse, regret or hesitation on leaving the people who discarded their country once again; who done his friend wrong.

That’s what he had told himself.

Maybe with the events, Yuri was on the right side, but not sure if he was on the right path. Everytime he looked at Vladimir with his loud and clear ideals, his mind always forced to recall the memory of the blast, grimly reminding him that Vladimir—while had not fallen like Zakhaev—had fallen into the pit of something dark, something _unknown_ to Yuri.

In front of the digital screen, it all seemed so distant from him, where it was just a static image of simple letters and numbers, sometimes moving.

In front of reality; it felt closer to Yuri, closer to self where he can feel anything just right underneath his fingertips.

The hot stark blood on the coldness of ice was contrasting, a sight that was familiar yet very glaring at the moment to Yuri, where he stepped over the too mutilated bodies, pushing the ones that could have been alive with his shoe to check, leaving a trail of fading bloodied footsteps behind, shooting a silenced bullet at the hint of life.

Suits and high tailored clothes were all stained with debris and blood. Even with the full knowledge of classified files on each one of them; the feeling of something wrong still lingered with the same exact repeating imagery, feeling this is something beyond than just a simple hit at back stabbers.

“Attrition, clever.” 

Starting from the lowest to the top, one by one, this is how something should be dismantled, fully aware of Vorshevsky’s circle points of weakness.

Even with his mind not at peace; it didn’t stop Yuri from receiving the rare praise coming from behind. Feeling rather prideful at his choices.

He was made a right hand for a reason.

Vladimir took a careless glance at the bloodied grey scenery, coming next to Yuri with similar bloodied footsteps, taking the chance to ask his friend.

“What happens next?”

As if on queue, Vladimir had turned to him, expecting the question from his long time friend.

“When it is the wild card’s turn, Yuri.” Vladimir responded.

“And what would that be?” Yuri asked again with a hint of sarcasm, as that is the first time that term was specifically used.

A face lingered on Yuri’s until Vladimir smiled in smugness, a gesture that was almost only reserved for Yuri to see. Secretively was not odd of his friend, as that was a part of what made him the first horseman.

Wordlessly, he had turned back on his heel to return to the helicopter that awaited for them. For once, Yuri has _hesitated_ to follow, taking a moment to stand for a bit before following Vladimir.

For the first time, he was not right on his friend’s heel, but a distance between the two was created momentarily before Yuri had forced himself to catch up.

  


* * *

  


VII.

Anything out of work felt irrelevant to Yuri, not tied to his current life which was too deeply embedded within the violence, rarely a room for what most call indulgence.

Whenever it rained, Yuri’s reaction to it had been usually neutral or negative, just an outside sound or an obstacle in a delayed mission. 

Today. As he paced around the room; waiting for the computer to start and load up, he extended his hand outside the gloomy day fit for him, feeling the pricks of violent raindrops on a recently inked arm.

Years of being at the lowest of scums, where rules never apply and survival was done at any cost. To the highest of grand schemes, where one pretended it was fancy when it was worse than a bloodshed—had made him think that he had seen it all form up and down, nothing should have phase him anymore.

But something about that plan—that _slaughter_ , made him want to throw up the second he was debriefed.

Coldness plunged itself in his body—a sensation Yuri almost forgot. Taps of his fingers on the keyboard felt hollow, the regular motions of gathering intel and information should be normal yet this feeling has been not even spared for Yuri.

Feeling was a privilege Yuri did not expect to return in this nullified night of his solitude.

“You’re awake.” 

The voice almost made him jump out of his seat, unexpected at this late out that Vladimir was still awake.

Tensed Body turned to face the man properly, seeing him standing at the door, the shadows seemingly consuming him _more_ by the day, letting the sharp light show his face of roughened skin and deeper scars. The eyes looked as if in alert at Yuri’s state.

He replied as he would normally do, but deep down, he felt himself waver, “I missed something.” 

“We both know you don’t just _miss_.” Vladimir said in an almost suspecting manner.

Uneasiness had rose between the two, Yuri’s logic told him that the act itself is not evident yet there was still the fear; where the implication in Vladimir’s voice was not subtle, that Yuri was doing something that should be hidden from him, as secrets did not come from Yuri.

Where the owner should know how their right-hand operates precisely.

Eye contact remained silently until it broke by the nasally voice speaking up again, but in a less sterner tone.

“You never change, do you?” Vladimir sounded almost lamenting at the assumption that Yuri was overworking, ”Never seen you without a clear head, sleep while you can, friend.”

Breathing out a breath Yuri didn’t know he was holding in, he merely nodded before getting back to what he had been doing, hearing the door shut.

At first glance, it would appear that he was revising the blueprints of the airport, at a second, it would seem like he was checking the weapons assigned and how to smuggle, at a third, it seemed he was checking the general outline of the setup.

How many times would someone need to look, until the idea clicks...Yuri wondered aimlessly.

Doesn’t matter and it won’t.

Nothing mattered to him, all what he built next to Vladimir felt _worthless_ and _empty_. Even if it was twenty years of committing his entire existence to this.

Yuri’s loyalty belonged to his country, and if it contradicted with his loyalty to his friend...

Let Vladimir Makarov _fall_.

  


* * *

  


+.

The disorganisation was a change, but a change received with the most open arms.

Getting into the role of a superior was seamless, the loyalists were no different than the people he had hired for Makarov. Neither was the rawness of a battlefield, albeit too sudden.

The wound was a bothersome, but not an obstacle; occasionally when he had to bend and press on it too much, or fall into shallow waters and bruise something. But in a way; it fuelled him _further_.

Distance snapped away between the two, where Yuri now stood low with hair standing everywhere, with a face and body scrapped and wounded; removing bits of the ink from skin, clothes now for _pure_ combat and stayed on for days to become rough, weapons scratched and used so constantly—specifically, the desert eagle.

Where Makarov stood high with his public tidied appearance, walking with elegance and sophistication, always away from the main event of blood and dirt until he entered it with a grand entrance to tie it with a bow and a kiss to Russia.

One stood looking down on the other who used to be right next to him, and one looked above in pride mixed with shame, pointing a gun with no thought for compromise.

Where one have shot without hesitation, and one who would shoot with regret at how this came to be.

Hatred was an underestimated term for Yuri’s feelings.

And so was complicated.

Often left with his thoughts as the two disavowed members of the task force prepare, the desert eagle has yet to leave his load-out whenever they were out.

Twenty years of two who met through ideals and found understanding, just vanished in thin air. It can be argued Yuri was the preparator of this downfall; where he betrayed his friend deeply. But it was not him who fell into the abyss of nothingness, where a useless war of devastation with bloodshed that was covered up as " _losses_ ".

Bitter was the most optimal word, where he had never thought that Makarov would simply step over him like that, even if those eyes slightly showed that behind the coldness of destruction, was the pain of a friend, for just a split second.

Without the ability to speak of it; as he was just a soldier to everyone else. Yuri let himself walk through with a stoic stance, letting only rage show.

But nonetheless. Questions were asked silently at him when it wasn’t so loud and heretic, as Yuri’s hate didn’t simply stem from mere professionalism.

With every move that once mirrored his originator, whom Yuri followed until he couldn’t no more. With every precise information and deductions that should and did belong to someone who knew their enemy so close—too close for anyone’s comfort; Yuri would feel eyes on him asking a single thing.

_How do you know?_

And not a single clue about it was shown.

Yuri didn’t even put effort into the act of being nonchalant, oblivious to the implications as if he has no guilt; in order to hide a remorseful trail of blood that seeped from his hands whenever he walked among the bodies of innocents that maybe could had been stopped.

The answer was as loud as it’s question; _inaudible_. Eyes simply looked in trained flatness whenever suspicion was directed at him, not a twitch, not a flinch.

 _Because I used to be him_.


End file.
